


Trout Yogurt

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Mother 2: Gyiyg no Gyakushuu | EarthBound
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3092588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How our favorite bizarre dessert came to be and why Porky's robots look like a certain maid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trout Yogurt

Electra cracked her gum. “Yanno, I can't give these little cakes away. People just don't seem to want junk food these days.”

The little master sat silent, sullen, glaring down at his plate. His father had told him off for questioning Mr. Monotoli about something. The maid leaned back. By order, she could not sit in any of the chairs in the gilt-and-crystal cafe. She pressed knuckles into her lower back.

“I really wanna make stuff,” she said, “I mean, I really like baking. But I wanna be weird. People don't like weird. So I tried 'bad for ya' but you have all these health nuts these days...”

Porky put his chin in his hand and gazed out the window. The thirtieth floor had a nice view, not as nice as the forty-eighth but you could still see over the tops of all the other buildings. Electra wondered why this building was so much taller than the others.

“Anyway,” she said as if she'd been holding a conversation with a participating speaker, “I think I might try making something disguised as health food. Junky sweets, yanno?”

Porky broke wind. He was fond of rude gestures, especially in front of powerful people he could be outright rude to.

Electra laughed. “Should I take that as a yes?”

 

The blond boy made a face as he chewed, pink crumbs dropping from his face.

“Hey, alright, so beet cake isn't the money maker,” Electra said breezily, dabbing his mouth with a napkin, “but I’m on the right track, right? I put, like, a pound of butter in this last batch.”

Porky swallowed with a grimace and reached for his chocolate milk.

“I was thinkin' some sort of vegetable, I mean, they're practically fruit anyway, and if I ad enough sugar people won't be able to tell, right? But I heard this guy's trying _cheese_ of all things in his bakery! He pairs it with peanut butter, which, okay, I _guess_ that goes together, but it's kinda weird and I think that's what people dig about it, right?”

Porky gave a one shoulder shrug and tucked into his deep-fried turkey leg.

“So maybe I’ll try some sorta meat. Sounds different, anyway.”

Electra wiped up the table. Every pass she made with her cloth, Porky would drop a few more crumbs. Electra made a game of it, sort of like a mix of table tennis and pong. She wound up knocking Porky's spoon off the table onto her trolly.

“Goal!” she laughed. Porky looked at her oddly.

 

“So anyway, Janice says I cook like I don't wanna live. I told her that's ridiculous, and anyway, even if I cooked like that, how's it gonna hurt my customers? I want _them_ to live, sweetheart.”

Porky was probing his rib jello with his fork. With every prod it would wobble ominously. Electra rested her chin on her hand, elbows up on the table.

“C'mon, tuck in,” she wheedled, it ain't gonna bite you.”

Porky glared balefully up through his bangs at her. A forceful prod sent a rippling wave throughout the mountainous mold. It snapped back and knocked the fork from Porky's hand. Electra laughed. Porky bristled.

“I guess this ain't it then.” Electra went suddenly thoughtful. “I dunno. I'm out of ideas, kiddo.”

Porky's mouth thinned dangerously. “Don't call me 'kid', I’m Mr. montoli's business partner.”

“Yeah, Monty’s alright,” Electra said glumly, only half-listening as she stared at her creation, “but what am I supposed to do? I don't really know about healthy things, like what's good for—”

“Fish,” Porky said.

Electra looked up in shock. It wasn't just that Porky was being helpful(a rare sight) but that his tone lacked venom, sarcasm, or even boredom.

Porky looked back at her, earnest for once. “My mom says fish is one of the healthiest foods out there.” His face darkened. “She used to say I shouldn't eat anything but fish, or I'd get even fatter.”

“That lady?” Electra laughed. “She's the size of–” she looked at Porky. “Sorry. But pardon my saying-so, she shouldn't be telling anyone off about their weight.”

Porky got an oddly stricken expression on his face.

“Sorry kiddo, but it's how I feel. I know she's your ma–”

“No,” Porky said, “no you're right.” He sounded slightly vulnerable.

Even Electra, lacking social niceties, could tell she had crossed a line. She smiled.

“Okay, kid,” she said, “sorry I’ve been bending your ear. You probably got more important stuff to do than to talk to little ol' me, right?”

Porky got a bratty look on his face.

“Fish,” he reminded her as she walked out. Electra waved back.

 

There was a veritable cornucopia on the table,

“Okay, so I’ve got cookies, cake, pie, ice cream, wafers, mochi, buns, bread, rolls, and fudge,” Electra said, taking the napkin covering the last plate.

Both leaned with their stomachs on the table, studying the food. Porky had a notepad and coffee as a palate cleanser. They systematically worked their way through the food. Porky made faces and called out judgments to Electra, who wrote them down.

“Too much cinnamon.” Porky pronounced a cookie.

_nix the cinnamon_ , she wrote.

“Wrong.”

_No cracker crust._

“Like the crust, hate the filling.”

_Less rhubarb next time._

“I think you accidentally made this one healthy.”

_No more vegetables._

Eventually every plate was empty. Porky, oddly enough, also looked disappointed. If Electra wasn't the hired help, she might get the idea that Porky was a little more invested in her quest than he let on.

Electra leaned back in her chair and sighed. “That’s it. That's every dessert I know how to make. Even the fancy ones I can't even pronounce.”

Porky surveyed the table with a philosophical look.

“You haven't tried yogurt,” he said.

Electra made a face. “I hate that stuff. It's a texture thing, I could never stand pudding either.”

“Yeah,” Porky prodded, “but this isn't about what _you_ want, you said so yourself.”

“Fine, throw my word back in my face,” Electra said jokingly. She took off her apron. “I don't even know what flavors go with fish, kiddo.”

“I do.”

Porky, was not mocking her. He seemed to want to help. Electra shrugged and tore off the top page of the pad. “Gimme a list.”

 

Porky looked at the quavering white mass before him.

“I haven't had time to work on the color...or the texture..or anything else. I've just been working on the flavor, like you said.”

Like an archeologist cracking a temple seal, Porky reached out with his dessert spoon. Electra looked out the window while she had a cigarette, unable to watch. She tapped the ash out on the carpet for one of the little cleaner bots to get. Sometimes she had to wonder what was the use of being a maid in a state-of-the-art building like this.

Porky swallowed.

“Almost.”

She looked now. “Almost?”

Porky rolled his eyes back, meditating.

“The tarragon was a nice touch, but you can't put the salt in. Or the thyme. Look, forget everything you know about cooking fish.”

“Done.”

“And listen to me.” Porky expounded on his palate while Electra’s cigarette wasted away forgotten in her hand.

“Got that?” Porky asked in the end. Electra hastily finished scribbling a note.

“Got it. She said. She leaned over the table and laid a wet smackeroo dead center on the kid's forehead.

“You'n me kid,” she said, “we're going far.”

Porky actually blushed.

 

“Better.”

_Nuts were a success._

“Worse.”

_No nutmeg._

“Better.”

_Sesame seeds are a go._

“Not bad, but it's missing something.”

_Needs more butter._

Porky stopped after his last bite, tongue rolling around in his mouth.

“What is it?” Electra asked, “did I miss a peach pit with the strainer?”

Porky opened his mouth—and took another bite.

Electra blurted out laughter. “Are you kidding me?”

Porky finished the bowl and then licked it clean for good measure.

Electra blew a triumphant plume of smoke—opposite Porky's direction, of course.

“Man, you're the best test kitchen a girl could ask for.”

“Yeah,” Porky smiled bitterly, “if there's one thing I know, it's food.”

“Pfft.” Electra waved her hand. “you know what you like. I know what I like, makin' food people actually wanna eat.”

“When can you have the first batch in production?” Porky asked eagerly.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down.” Electra waved her hands. “I used up all my ingredients for this last batch. Besides, it takes time to get everything ready. I gotta brine the fish, I gotta grind the spices and curdle the milk—”

“You could have a machine,” Porky said enthusiastically.

“That's a nice idea, kid, but I doubt anyone in the robotics division here is making a trout-flavored yogurt machine.”

“I can draw up specs,” Porky said. He was completely serious. As Electra watched, stupefied, he drew rapidly on a napkin, outlining parts with a mechanical speed she had never seen from him. He gave her the napkin and she tried to read it. Her eyes crossed.

“Hey, I can't make heads or tails of this thing,” she said.

“An engineer can.” Porky was scribbling again, this time words and numbers. “This guy lives in Twoson. He's sloppy but he can get the job done.”

Electra looked wonderingly at the paper. “This is a lotta effort for one specialty dessert, kid.”

Porky gave an answer that stuck with her long after she left Monotoli's employ: “I have nothing but time for the things I want.”

 

“Ms. Electra?”

Electra stopped dead, jaw working around a wad of evergreen gum.

One of the security guards addressed her. He didn't seem aggressive. So she wasn't in trouble.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Minch wanted you to meet him on the helipad.”

“On the roof?” Electra frowned. “He knows I’m not allowed to go there! Did he say why?”

“No, miss. He just said to meet him there.

Electra rode the elevator up, worry gnawing at her insides. Porky didn't usually want to show her things. Was he going to fire her?

When she opened the door to the roof, the wind was so strong it blew her hair straight back. There was Mr. Monotoli, and those nice kids that had brought the machine. Maybe they knew Porky?

The weirdest thing, Electra thought as she let the door blow shut behind her, was that the helicopter was already gone by the time she got there.

 

In her apartment, Electra touched a switch. In a gush of steam and a rattle of gears, the machine laboriously produced a single cup of trout-flavored yogurt. With a small spoon, Electra sampled it.

“Hey, presto kiddo,” she said. She dabbed a little at her eyes.

 

An old little boy sat in his room and tried to teach a robot how to chew gum.

 


End file.
